Caught In The Stream

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Thursday, January 11, 2018

To possess
it, without an es-
specially
sly
grin, poses
a problem
for them,
normally dull brown,
and sunk down
by bulbous noses
that sniff a tru-
er face in the blue.
And why
not, reflecting, as they should, on the sky?

Thursday, February 23, 2017

The wind's ill
but it blows well
and good. To some
one, no good being
left a great sum when
it wasn't willed. No,
not by a wind, nor
Time, nor the Easterly
ways she hangs about,
and cross, creases her
face to say hi,
then leave it, her
with the wind.

Tuesday, May 10, 2016

Inconsistent, see
I am, just what I told you
and not. Where it went,
I don't know. Where did it go,
the Sympathy? It's not mine,
or not now.
The weight is. The
weight came
fast. Faster than the wait
left, or tried to. Not all
at once. It hopped in
and out like the sparrows
who visit, interchangeably,
inconsistently, wanting
but not daring,
then gone.

Sunday, October 25, 2015

praise for Folly, Erasmus, from these lips,
or from what I use as lips, the tips
of fingers I've let linger without expertise
on a feeling less feeling than desire to tease
what I can, or they may, from a simple rock.
I found it on the spoiled ground I walk,
alongside hop-scotch squares chalked
to dare jumps from steps I give to the bare
concrete. Its smooth brown whisper
hints at lost red, but it hasn't led me to what
formed it: not what gravity of years; not
the great weight of a wait uncounted; not the slow
or sudden forces that freed it. I don't know
any of it. I'm not as foolish as the French
academic I read who studied a people at length,
and their region others had named. He claimed
to know what makes, or made, them different. The same
I could say for a taco chain and its bravado
at being expert in making flavorless burritos.
I'll boast instead of the plastic bear.
It's clearly grown better at holding air
than the honey leaving it. I also like this rock, and what
matter it's expert in. It's this rock, until it's not.

Sunday, May 24, 2015

The woman, out-of-seasonally in
her winter's attire, fire-red
jacket and woolen cap, snaps
off rounds of sermons. Full-on
leafy, on a late-spring's early
morn, the parked trees stretch and stand
stately in their disbelief.

Wednesday, September 03, 2014

The story of gray and of lavender
is a product of their time together,
of arcing heights, yellows arranged, the lines
of ocean scold, and a bye-going sliver,
and they tell it, this story and their time,
to no one unwilling to hold its shine

Friday, April 11, 2014

Not only time's
relative. There's space,
and the zigzag paths
over dried needles.
I've found great distance
in a single step;
the plod that connects
me to young flowers.
Lightness'll come crossing
mouthy oceans; tongues
to teach me close. Mine's
an old, restless soul.

Tuesday, April 01, 2014

What's the get in letting
go, again? It's one when,
a daffodil moment.
That then, a yellow's warm's
warmest, before it goes,
spent. You hold it, the warmth
warmer yet for getting,
and let the yellow go
to where so many went.